


The Garden of Meduseld

by SpiteMeister



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Edoras, F/M, Gardening, Harad, Marriage, Meduseld, Rohan, Roses, Spiders, catnip, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiteMeister/pseuds/SpiteMeister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Lothíriel's love of gardening. And perhaps the love of her husband, too.</p><p>Originally posted on FFnet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freshly-Turned Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Éomer Learns a Thing or Two About Gardening | Whereby Fertilizer is Procured | Wherefore the Lady Demands Twine | Whereupon the Lord Sees the Plan Unfold

**Wherein Éomer Learns a Thing or Two About Gardening**

King Éomer stood at the gate of the garden of the southern slopes of Meduseld, aghast at the sight before him. Everywhere he looked, the earth had been dug up, giving one the impression that a pack of wild dogs had recently passed through. After a long day training new colts and fillies and soldiers alike, this was not what he wanted to come back to! He had been assured that his lady-wife was fair with a trowel; he had seen for himself the work she had purportedly done at the castle of Dol Amroth. He stomped through the “garden” toward the door into the Royal Apartment of Meduseld, which he slammed shut behind him, and made his way to the Queen's Solar.

His wife looked astonished to see him in such a state. From her wide eyes fixed on him over a raised up of tea, to the paper slipping from her hand, she was the perfect study of surprise. She set her cup down with a neat clink of glass. Smiling, she said, “Good evening, my lord.”

“How can you sit there like everything is as it should be?” he responded, keeping a steady voice. “How can you sit there all calm and collected when the garden is a mess?”

Lothíriel blinked once and replied, “It was all I could get done today.” She lifted the teacup back to her lips before continuing, “It will be another day or so before I can shake to dirt out of those clumps.”

Éomer flopped down on a chair opposite her. She frowned when she saw dust and dirt being tracked behind him.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he asked her.

“I beg your pardon?” she shot back.

“Who in their right mind would go and dig up that magnificent garden? Those roses were put in over one hundred years ago! I thought they said you knew your way around a spade.”

“Let me tell you something,” she said sharply, pointing a short-nailed finger at his chest and leaning forward, “That magnificent garden was overrun by grass and weeds, those roses were taken out last year, and anyone who knows anything about gardening will tell you that I'm one of the best.” Lothíriel leaned back with a defiant glint in her eyes.

Éomer also leaned back, considering this woman recently come into his life. Slightly plump yet shapely, fair skin with a touch of sun (especially on her upper cheeks and the bridge of her nose, giving the look of a permanent blush), black hair gathered lazily into a bun (where were her attendants?), and intelligent grey eyes. If her looks hadn't tantalized him, then her wit and personality certainly would have. This woman, even eight years his junior, got him every single time.

“So,” he said, not backing down from the challenge, “if I were to ask any one of the previous gardeners, they would tell me you were in the right to destroy the garden?”

“I'd wager they'd tell you I was right to start by turning the earth.” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her tea.

“If I were a wagering man…” he said, making for the door.

“The loser must scrub the dirt off the winner's feet,” she said. “I like to walk about a garden barefoot when the day is done,” she added devilishly.

And so it was that Éomer begrudgingly sat before the small washtub of hot water, being told to get between the toes of dainty little feet belonging to his lady-wife.

 

**Whereby Fertilizer is Procured**

“The season is quite dry,” Lothíriel mused aloud to the lady-in-waiting who offered assistance for the garden.

“No, this is how the spring usually starts, my lady,” Lady Hliehhan said. They were both resting, sheltered under a gable's shadow from the midday sun. The dirt was looking rather dusty, even after just one day. “Might I make a suggestion, my lady?”

Lothíriel looked around, and then said, “Are you talking to me?”

Lady Hliehhan looked confused. “You are the only other person here.”

“Oh, alright. I thought there might be someone else here who had insisted on titles being used,” Lothíriel teased. She grinned to make sure her meaning was understood, and was happy when the grin was returned.

Hliehhan said, “There is a good deal of manure from the stables and the barns in this area. I've always used it for the gardens at our family's residence in Edoras. I believe some of the children run a compost.”

“Children composting manure? Goodness gracious!”

“There are many orphans my la- erm, sorry. There are many orphans, and they make money by collecting the shi-er … droppings which adults are less willing to handle. Recently, pigeon droppings have been added to the compost, and I hear that it's been doing wonders for the vegetable gardens.”

“Is that so?” Lothíriel said. She looked again at the fast-drying soil before turning to her companion. “I think we should pay a visit to the compost, but after we've taken some refreshment.”

Lothíriel estimated that the garden would require well over two-hundred pounds of premium compost. Before she went, she sectioned off a corner where she would keep a compost pile going through the year. When she visited the pile kept by the children, she enlisted their help to carry the lode all the way up to the gardens. Some of the children stayed on to help her spread the fertilizer around, giggling and laughing as they did so – although Lothíriel drew the line at flinging the composted manure at one another. The entire compost that the children bought didn't cover the entire garden, but she paid them at the end of the day … and felt that it wasn't enough. With a sudden flash of inspiration, she called for washbuckets to be brought out and food to be prepared.

And so it was that Éomer was greeted by a much neater – albeit smellier – garden, and the sight of the Golden Hall of Meduseld teaming with children and their laughter.

 

**Wherefore the Lady Demands Twine**

Lothíriel frowned, hands on her hips, as she stood back to consider the newly-planted roses. After Éomer's fit over the missing roses, she decided to placate him by making them a priority. Unfortunately, this rose was proving quite unruly. She had found a garden which boasted all colors and shapes and scents of roses, and asked the family for a mere cutting or two. She had not expected to receive three whole bushes!

Two had taken nicely to the fence, now beginning to show new growth and buds while framing the gate to the garden in a very pleasing way. But this last rose … what a nuisance! It had destroyed a trellis in one sennight, and now spilled over into a spot Lothíriel had wanted for mullein. She quit the garden for the midday meal, considering her options. It became clear that she had to take drastic measures: she was declaring war on the rosebush.

After her meal, she asked around for a hammer, some nails, and some bits of wood. Although puzzled, a workman from the stables said he was glad to be of service, but the lady insisted she do her work herself. She found some pieces of wood, and disappeared into the Royal Apartments. Into the late afternoon, the sound of hammering could be heard from the garden.

Lothíriel Queen and Éomer King took their supper together in the hall, with many of the soldiers and their families present. The King stood to give a few words, saying, “Friends, Kinsmen, the hunt has been good to us, and now we may enjoy the fruits of our labor!”

Pheasants were brought out, roasted in all different sauces and stuffed with all different stuffings. Before a servant took a knife to the twine on the pheasant nearest the royal couple, Lothíriel cried out. Many heads turned, and she said, “Please, could you save the whole strand? I have a use for it.”

And so it was that Éomer King went out into the garden after dark with his lady-wife, holding thorned rose branches in place while Lothíriel Queen secured them with sauce-laden twine to newly-placed planks of wood.

 

**Whereupon the Lord Sees the Plan Unfold**

Éomer stood at the gate of the garden, looking upon a very different sight than the one which greeted him not more than a fortnight before. To his left and right were fragrant pale-yellow roses, and before him stretched a path of stepping stones neatly placed. The soil still smelt faintly of manure – and sometimes his wife did too – but the garden was beginning to look more and more like a real garden. In one part of the garden, large planks of wood had been positioned so as to make a terrace-effect. Just beyond, little saplings were swayed by the breeze. As he walked up the path, he saw his wife dozing on the threshold of the entryway to the Royal Apartments. Her face and dress were smudged with dirt; her feet were bare and dirty; a trowel had slipped from her hands; a pallet of potted plants stood off to the side. And the woman looked adorable. Éomer felt a smile growing on his face.

He stooped down and gathered her in his arms, making sure that one of her arms draped around his neck. She was still sweaty and quite a bit more filthy than he realized at first. Lothíriel shifted in his arms as he walked through the door and shut it behind him.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said in a sleepy voice. He kissed her forehead. “Is it suppertime?”

“Supper can wait,” he said simply, catching a look of mischief in her face.


	2. The Horse-Lord and the Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherefore the Herbs Are NOT Frippery | Wherefrom the Fear Arose | Wherein the King Picks Flowers | Whereby the Queen Tames the Mousers of Meduseld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on FFnet.

**Wherefore the Herbs Are NOT Frippery**

When is became widely-known that the Queen was growing herbs in her garden – some rumors put it that she was only growing herbs or only growing flowers – there came a surprising amount of complaint to the ears of the court. The King insisted that whatever his wife grew would benefit the citizens no matter what it was; many of the more irritated citizens would not listen. All this fuss over a garden! Lothíriel only spent rainy days inside, catching up on official matters which she was generally content to let Éomer handle. On one such day, the two cloistered themselves in the Queen's Solar – claiming they needed “private time,” to throw off those anxious to see an heir in the near future – and Éomer told her of what he had been hearing. When he was done, a puzzled smile grew on Lothíriel's face. She spoke:

“I think you should tell them that while I am growing as many different herbs and flowers as I can, I am growing vegetables. What's more, I have planted apple trees that will yield fruit in only a matter of years. These thing are to supplement our house as well as the common folk, if need be. Whilst we grow back what was lost in the War, are not moments of joy and hope necessary? I cannot grow wheat and barley in this garden in any sufficient amount, but I _can_ grow things which may yet provide moments of joy and hope. The herbs I have planted can be used to dress the holiday dishes. After all, that is when frippery is tolerated, is it not?”

Éomer brought this message to the people of Edoras, and while some still grumbled ungraciously, many more waited eagerly to discover what gifts the Queen had to give.

And so it was that during the reign of Éomer King and his Queen Lothíriel that the dishes created by the household of Meduseld were given to those whose spirits needed lifting the most – and lifted they were.

 

**Wherefrom the Fear Arose**

A scream startled Lothíriel from her reverie, alerting her to the world outside her little garden. It had come from the bedchamber she shared with Éomer, and thence she rushed straight from the dirt. There was Éomer, batting away some unseen foe.

“My lord!” she said, alarmed at the scene. He looked at her with widened eyes. “What is the matter?”

“'Tis nothing,” he said brusquely, turning back to the lacings of his tunic. Lothíriel went over and brushed his hands away, tying the garment up herself.

“That did not sound like nothing to me. I was rather frightened for you,” she responded.

At that moment a guard came into the room, asking if that had been a scream just now. He was dismissed, and Lothíriel turned back to her husband.

“Please tell me what happened.”

“I would rather not,” he said stiffly. The couple went their separate ways for the day, and the matter was quite far from Lothíriel's mind until that evening as they were laying down in bed. Éomer was pulling the blankets back on his side, and the unmistakeable scream from that morning came from his lips. Lothíriel sat bolt upright and looked at her husband.

Upon looking down at the bed, she noticed a large black spider with pointy-looking legs crawling across his bedspace quickly. She took a handkerchief from her nightstand and scooped it up, walked out into the garden and deposited it into the dirt. When she came back to the bedchamber, Éomer had gotten under the covers, though he sat upright and had a downcast gaze. Lothíriel clambered into bed next to him.

“Would you like to tell me now?” she asked without looking at him.

“After everything I've seen, I don't know what it is about them that bothers me to this day,” he began softly, still looking heartily ashamed of himself. “Éowyn put spider eggs in my boots and gloves once, when she got mad at me for riding out on patrols while she had to stay here. I did not notice until the eggs hatched and baby spiders were crawling all over my arms and legs. Of course, Uncle scolded her soundly, but she never knew how much it got to me.”

Lothíriel leaned over and gave him a sweet, lingering kiss on the cheek. “Your secret is safe with me.”

And so it was that Lothíriel Queen ever after defended her husband valiantly from insidious spiders. Although in reality she deposited them gently in her garden to keep the flies at bay.

 

**Wherein the King Picks Flowers**

Éothain approached his new second-in-command as he rubbed down the King's beloved Firefoot with a handful of grass.

“Where did milord go?” Éothain asked.

“I am not certain. I think he went into the bushes to relieve himself.”

“Indeed,” Éothain replied, “So why is it that he has been gone so long?”

The man shrugged, and Éothain went away, determined to find Éomer King. It seemed that he had given the King's Guard the slip, and Éothain raised the alarm when it became apparent that no one knew the King's whereabouts. Each man went off in a different direction.

It so happened that one man stumbled across the King utterly absorbed in the stringing together of wildflower to fashion a small crown. He couldn't hide his handiwork in time, and the King's Guard was witness that day to their King, Terror of Mûmak-il, Blessed of the Line of Eorl, making a flower garland for his Queen.

They teased and tormented him the whole ride back to Edoras, in part to ameliorate the thought of nearly “losing” their King. But who could pass up the chance? Éothain insisted on being present when the King crowned his Queen, until he saw the look in Éomer's eyes.

And so it was that Éomer King handed over a scraggly crown of clover and dandelion to his Queen, vowing that he'd never bring wildflowers home again. (But he did later anyway).

 

**Whereby the Queen Tames the Mousers of Meduseld**

One fine day, Lothíriel looked upon her growing garden with satisfaction. The fence had kept out deer and rabbits thusfar, and there was an abundance of greens and vegetables to be expected for the Autumn. Yet still there remained empty spaces, and Lothíriel wasn't sure what might be planted at this time. She asked Hliehhan for advice, and was promptly gifted a large plant of catnip. She planted it that afternoon, hoping that it indeed would grow as fast as Hliehhan had promised.

The next day, she returned to the sight of a scrawny tabby cat rolling in her new plant! Rather than shooing it away, she went about her weeding and pruning, and waited for it to leave. When it did, she went to inspect the plant, and found that it had been worked over: the stems were bent and many leaves were nibbled. It was a sad-looking plant. She spent the day scrounging for chickenwire, and she used it to protect what was left of the poor catnip.

The day after, she returned to the garden and saw a group of cats wandering her garden. Some scampered upon her approach, but most stayed, merely switching their tails to and fro, and glancing coolly over their shoulders at her. She worked around the cats, wondering what was to be done. Over many weeks, the number of cats varied greatly, and she almost never saw the same two together more than once. As the catnip grew, she learned some of their names and to which family of Edoras they belonged. To those who had no family and no names, she gave names and food; and sometimes a warm lap or a soft pet.

Finally, the catnip seemed to be bursting from the fencing she had needed, and she began to cut it back. Many cats followed her wistfully as she brought to cuttings away, and so instead she paused, playing with them as they chased the sprigs of fragrant catnip. Whatever she did not save, she brought to dry in her and Éomer's own bedchamber. If he looked askance at her, she would generally choose to ignore it, or say that she just wanted to make doubly sure that these herbs weren't kept out where little animals might get at them.

And so it was that many mousers, however mean they might be to people who usually ignored them, would follow Lothíriel Queen loyally around the Golden Hall of Meduseld for all the days of her life. Unfortunately, this also meant that many dead mice were found around the Royal Apartments, or, more typically, in Éomer King's slippers.


	3. Sowing the Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the Trees Bloom Forth | Whereby the Lady Wins Her War of the Roses | Wherefrom the Foreign Flower Arrives | Wherein the Seeds Are Sown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I begin to diverge from canon. You'll see soon how wild this divergence gets.

**Wherein the Trees Bloom Forth**

There was a lovely evening in mid-July where Lothíriel persuaded Éomer to take supper in the garden with her. They had been married only that spring, yet they rarely had time to spend in one another's company – except in bed. And that's not how one comes to fully know and understand one's partner. An old blanket was spread out over one of the last bare patches in the garden, and a simple meal was brought for them. The royal couple sat in silence under the apple tree saplings at first.

Éomer leaned back before looking around the garden. “It's so different from how it used to be.” Lothíriel's eyebrow twitched, but she offered no response. He continued, “I like it very much. How many of these plants will be here next year?”

“The trees, of course,” she said slowly, “the roses, the strawberries, some of the herbs … In fact, most of these will be here next year unless I take them out.” She smiled as she saw a cat pawing a stray stem of catnip.

Éomer nodded, and wasn't certain if he should say what he had been thinking for some time. He ventured, “This would be a fun place to play for a child. I liked the garden I knew growing up, but this one seems…”

“Yes?”

“Colorful; playful. Practical with a hint of whimsy,” said Éomer. He smiled at her, and saw that there was a soft look on her face. She cast her gaze to the ground before looking back at him when she replied:

“Gardens are good for children. More gardens should be made with children in mind. They like to go about and pick berries in the summer, between their meals. To eat the herbs. To discover the bugs crawling under the rocks.” Lothíriel returned his smile, with something a little more devious in her countenance when she continued: “And the garden is an excellent form of discipline. Whenever I got into squabbles with my brothers, we would be forced to work in the gardens with my mother while she told us stories which exalted the virtue of love for all creatures. Pure torture.”

Éomer laughed aloud. “That's rather clever!”

“I didn't realize that at the time.” She sighed, “I just hope I can be a good parent like they were.”

The two looked into each other's eyes, and found reassurance that they held a common desire: more than anything else, they wanted to be parents.

Long after sunset, servants from the kitchen sought out the royal couple in the garden to retrieve the kitchen wares, and found the King and Queen cuddled under an apple tree sapling.

And so it was that by some unknown magic the apple trees of the Garden of Meduseld were fabled to always bloom early and longest, and bear the best fruit of the Riddermark.

 

**Whereby the Lady Wins Her War of the Roses**

Lothíriel called for her friend Hliehhan one morning in late July. The messenger could only tell the Lady Hliehhan that the Queen was in a most curious state. In his words, the Queen seemed “befuddled,” and then he looked proud of himself for having used a big word. Hliehhan hurried along to the Golden Hall, greeting passers-by cheerfully. In the main hall, she bowed to her King, and told him that his wife had asked for her. Éomer King smiled and informed her that the Queen had seemed “rather perplexed,” and then looked proud of himself for thinking he told her something new. Hliehhan smiled back, and a servant came to escort her to the Royal Garden.

The Queen indeed looked puzzled. The servant was sent away, and Hliehhan was beckoned to stand next to her. In front of them was a wild-looking rosebush with a large number of pink blooms still left – rather odd for late July.

“Now, my friend, what is this?” asked Hliehhan

“Do you see what I see?”

“I'll tell you what I see and you can tell me if I have the right of it: your rose is lovely but positively wild. The thorns are as big as wolf's teeth, and the stems reach out like arms as though grasping for something to hold and pull itself out of the ground.”

“Tell me what you really think,” Lothíriel replied with a laugh. “That is exactly what I see! You know how I'd thought this matter had been settled. But look there at the clapboards where I had nailed wood to the very building!”

Hliehhan looked, and saw that the rose had broken away, snapping the twine and ripping some of the nailed-down wood from the building. She looked back at Lothíriel. “You are not playing at some jest are you?”

Lothíriel scowled good-naturedly, “I'm afraid you've let me brothers trick you into believing that I inherited the family proclivity toward mischief. Nay! I was at a loss to account for this. You are the first I thought to call on for this matter; and to reassure me that I had not taken leave of my senses. I would have asked my husband, but he can never tell with me to begin with.”

The two women laughed. Rather than get straight to work, Lothíriel showed her friend around the garden. Hliehhan remarked at how well the catnip had taken, and complimented the Queen's yellow roses which stood porter to the gate. On this, Hliehhan asked, “I thought I understood that the path from this gate goes to the royal stables?”

Lothíriel confirmed this. “I haven't had time to add any shrubbery back there. It's a project for another season, but I believe hedgefruit would do very well.”

Hliehhan said, “As for these two other roses … Did you plant these all on the same day?”

“Indeed. I plant by the moon, so I keep a schedule of what I work on and when. The roses were planted by the waxing moon in the sign of the twins.”

“Aye, it was a good one for flowers,” Hliehhan said, “but perhaps too good!”

The two women discussed the roses at length, and by noon they had gone through every possibility except …

“Do you think …” Hliehhan started. She continued only at Lothíriel's bidding, “Do you think it was perhaps some sort of magic?”

Lothíriel looked thoughtful, and answered, “Only three years ago I would have dismissed the notion. I cannot think what else it might be, but you could be right – and it may be that someone with closer ties to the deepest mysteries of nature would know the answer to this problem. Then again, what is a rosebush to such a person? It may be better to take the whole thing out.”

Although it seemed such a shame, Hliehhan agreed that it may be for the best. The matter was dropped and Lothíriel had to take care of other parts of her garden. The next day, a downpour started which did not let up for an entire sennight, and she was prevented from doing any work. Just the day the sun came out, visitors called upon Meduseld.

Gimli and Legolas had decided to stop by and pay their respects to the King of Rohan as friends. Éomer ribbed them good-naturedly about having not sent any missives to warn of their coming, and told them that he would have held a splendid feast for them if he had had time to prepare. Lothíriel was glad to see them too, for she remembered the liveliness they – especially Gimli – had brought to the celebrations in the past few years. The guests insisted that no such splendid feast would be necessary; although they would be glad to meet again those with whom they had fought alongside. The Golden Hall was prepared at least for this, and due to the short notice, Lothíriel suggested that some of her garden may be ready to come to the table.

Could that evening be anything but merry? The conversation was engaging, and news was brought from Gondor and various other lands to the east. The two travelers were headed for Fangorn, and thence to the Glimmering Caves. Éomer gave his blessing as King, and then insisted that he provide any supplies they might need.

As the night wore on and conversation turned toward how wonderful the meal was, Éomer drew attention to Lothíriel's commendable work in the garden. She blushed and tried to wave him off, but then Legolas showed interest, having seen the gardens of Dol Amroth. Éomer suggested that she give a tour of the garden in the morning, saying that he would also make himself available to accompany them. Lothíriel would have protested more (not wanting the guests to see the garden after a week of rain) had not Gimli himself voiced an interest. She assented, but that night made her concern known to her husband. He reassured her that all would be well – but that night she had a nightmare about the rosebush grabbing her husband and his friends with its thorny stems and eating them alive.

The morning was pleasant and cool, and the freshness of the air after spending nearly a week in the stuffy hall made Lothíriel view her misgivings in a new light. Without much trepidation, she led the guests and her husband through the garden, and each graciously complimented her. She even felt a little pride when Legolas said that no one could possibly find fault with her work. It couldn't be avoided though: toward the end of the walk the group came across the troublesome rosebush, and she sheepishly confessed her worries, explaining what she had gone through with this flower.

Legolas stepped forward, reaching out to take hold of one of the stems while meticulously avoiding the thorns. She couldn't quite hear him, but it was clear that he was speaking to the rose. To her, Éomer's, and Gimli's astonishment, the limbs of the rose shifted very suddenly, stretching out like a cat, and then it folded itself neatly into its corner, leaving space again where it had nearly choked out the mullein. The elf grinned at his hosts' expressions.

“How did you come by this?” he asked the Queen.

“I had requested cuttings from a family near here, and this was one of the ones I was given,” she replied.

“I should like to know then, were I you, where they got this from. Here is the work of the Entwives, if my grandfather's tales are to be believed.” He turned then to Gimli, “Providence smiles on us that we stopped here before going to Fangorn: we see a wonder of the _olvar_ without treading through woody climes.”

And so it was that the rose behaved as long as Lothíriel lived – even if it showed restlessness from time to time – and attracted many elven guests over the years.

 

**Wherefrom the Foreign Flowers Arrive**

Not three days after Legolas and Gimli departed, a messenger from Minas Tirith arrived late in the night. The King and Queen received him in the mostly-dark and empty hall. As he ate a meal scrounged from the kitchen, he informed them that King Elessar had need of Éomer's counsel on a matter of diplomacy in the South. He reassured the Queen – who looked very concerned – that it did not look like war; it seemed that a number of tribes in the farthest reaches of Harad had long wanted to make contact with the Reunited Kingdom in the North, but had had a difficult time sending messages through some of the regions between the two lands.

“When they finally found a safe passage, they sent many diplomats and gifts of goodwill.” The messenger paused, and said slowly, “If your Lord and Ladyship permit me, may I say something that's been on my mind since I left Minas Tirith?”

“Of course,” Lothíriel answered instantly, barely catching the amused smile on Éomer's face at her boldness.

“What they've sent makes me think it's not just a collection of tribes: that it's a great kingdom in its own right. I brought with me what I could, but the larger gifts to the people of Rohan had to stay in Minas Tirith. The messages themselves are written in a combination of what appears to be very old Quenya and Adunaîc, along with some indecipherable writing that may be a regional language. That's what I was told to tell you before I gave you these,” he said, now handing over officially-sealed scrolls to both monarchs. The two took them, and saw that even though the script was nigh-unreadable, it was beautiful. They looked back to the messenger, and he took it as a sign to continue, “I was told to accompany you to Minas Tirith after you had read them … and to give you the presents I was able to bear with me. Your permission to retrieve them?”

“Can it not wait until morning?” Lothíriel asked. He shook his head.

“I was told that your gift was to spend as little time in the cold air as possible.” The response mystified them, so the messenger went away, and was back soon enough with two items. One was a potted plant with long, spiked leaves, and the other was a dagger. The messenger pulled out another scroll – looking to be read many times – and he read aloud:

“'For the King Éomer, a dagger of our obsidian, crafted at the very time Eorl the Young rode to the Field of Celebrant. It is said that the dagger was meant to go with the leaders of the Balchoth, but we are pleased to be presenting it to you.'”

Éomer took the dagger and unsheathed it. The blade was deadly sharp, and the facets of the black stone glimmered in a dazzling array of colors in the firelight, shining and shifting as he turned it.

“Care instructions are included, my lord, with the added note that it's not meant as an insult to your ability to care for your weapons – just that they weren't sure if the Rohirrim used stone weapons.” He cleared his throat and passed another small scroll to Éomer before continuing, “For the Queen Lothíriel, whose skill in garden-craft has preceded further than perhaps she realizes, a potted aloe plant is given. It is kept in many households in Harad, useful for treating minor burns and scrapes. Water only occasionally, keep in the sunniest and warmest place you have, and mix some sand into the soil when you transplant it.”

Lothíriel took the plant and felt the leaves. Smooth but for the spiney edges. The messenger was given a room for the night, and the King and Queen returned to sleep. First thing in the morning, they would read their letters.

True to the messenger's word, the missives were rather hard to read, and the royal couple had to combine their efforts to make heads and tails out of the content. The first part of the letters turned out to be replicas, explaining why the Kingdom of the Unified Tribes had not reached out sooner. According to the letter, there were emissaries from each tribe in addition to a royal emissary to be sent to Minas Tirith to account for the Haradrim contribution to the War. The tone of the letters was friendly, and noted that there was too much to discuss in such a short letter. In addition to the emissaries, a detailed map of Harad and Khand would be given over the the kingdoms of the North, hoping for the exchange of intelligence to be seen as a token of peace.

The second portion of the letters explained the gifts for each kingdom in the North. Lothíriel's letter informed her of the many plants she could expect to receive: some medicinal, some decorative; some needed warmer climes, some could be grown outside; some were food, and some were spices. The list was very long, and she only recognized a few of the names. Éomer, more astonishingly, was to receive a small (but sizable) herd of all-black horses. Some of the tribes closer to the front line of the War had discovered the misfortune of the Riddermark to lose so much stock, and so many different breeds had been gathered from the land and sent North. At first Éomer was speechless, and almost refused to believe it, but the messenger would later confirm that a herd of many different horses, along with stud books, had arrived in Minas Tirith.

After finishing the letters it was well into the afternoon. Éomer summoned the messenger, and said that he would be ready to go Minas Tirith not the next day, but the day after.

And so it was that Lothíriel bade farewell to Éomer on the promised day, wondering what this odd turn of events could mean for their lives.

 

**Wherein the Seeds are Sown**

The early August sun blazed down on her garden, and Lothíriel stared longingly at it from her little writing desk in the sitting room. The window through which she peered was one of the largest in the Riddermark – glass being at a premium – and lamented the fact that she could not at this very moment have her hands in the dirt. Alas! Éomer would be in Minas Tirith for at least a fortnight yet. She looked back at the stack of letters, and with a plaintive sigh continued on in her work. As Queen, the drudgery of official correspondence now fell on her shoulders in Éomer's absence.

 _Absence,_ she thought, bringing to mind the memory of cold sheets at night.

After getting through the five longest letters and replying dutifully to each, she yawned and slumped over the desk. _Just a nap._

When she awoke, a breeze was stirring the garden outside, and the sun was casting long shadows from behind the mountains. In a panic, she sat up again and got through the pile of work before the moon rose. Dinner was brought to her study, and the moment she looked at it, she felt her stomach turn. Fresh milk from that morning, kept cool in a cellar; a little roll of bread, filled with fruits and some sort of rich cheese; roast pork; and a goblet of sweet wine. She tried to ignore the nausea she suddenly felt, because she was hungry and these were some of her favorite foods from the kitchen. Somebody must have wanted to treat her.

She started with the milk, and after a sip realized that she should have listened to her stomach. Setting the glass back down, she reached for the roll of bread, still warm from the oven. Also a bad choice. Finally she cut a piece of pork, and ate it slowly, eventually forcing it down. A shudder went through her and she almost let it come back up. She took a deep breath before sipping the wine. It left a sour taste in her mouth. What was wrong with her? Lothíriel called back the servant, apologizing for the trouble, and asked to be brought plain water.

And so it was that the whole time Éomer King was away her appetite became worse and worse, until she was barely eating anything, and only just getting through the work each day.


	4. The Primrose Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whereby He is a King-Turned-Gardener | Wherefore the Fruits are Bitter | Whereupon the Roses Begin to Vanish | Wherein a Declaration is Declared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More canon-oddities. Why? Because it's fun.

**Whereby He is a King-Turned-Gardener**

Éomer King sat back at his wife's desk, admiring his own handiwork. He wasn't sure what she would think but he truly hoped she appreciated it: across the large window of the sitting room he had put shelves to house the new plants he had brought back from his time in Minas Tirith. He had worked quickly but carefully, ensuring that each plant would have plenty of space. The plants would, of course, obscure the view of the garden outside, but come winter this room would be a small indoor garden.

Then he looked to the large collection of some forty-odd plants, wondering where to put them all. Some were larger, and would have to be moved to a hothouse at first convenience. Some were quite small, and would do very well right in this room. Éomer had to admit: he had grown rather fond of these plants on the way back to Edoras, having cared for many of them himself. But it was a poor replacement for his wife, whom he discovered had been ill since shortly after his departure. She seemed alright during the day, but mealtimes were difficult, as she refused anything but plain bread and water.

An astonished gasp broke his reverie, and he turned to see Lothíriel in the threshold. He grinned.

“What say you?”

At first she said nothing – which concerned him some – and then delight lit her face.

“Oh, these are wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Some I have seen before in the hothouses of Dol Amroth, but many of these are entirely new to me. What's this?” she said, now looking at the window.

He cleared his throat and said, “I thought that come winter you'd like to have some of these flowers close at hand to enjoy.” To himself, he thought, _I would too_.

If he had thought her smile large before, he was caught by surprise when she launched herself at him, giggling like a little girl. She hugged him tightly, and then kissed him on the neck. He became slightly self-conscious of the fact that he was not all that fresh-smelling.

“This was very sweet of you,” she said. Lothíriel looked at the plants again, and added, “I will have to re-pot some of these before I put them up, though.”

“Pardon?”

“I'll have to put them in larger pots. Right now the new moon is in the sign of the Maiden, so I can do that tonight. Would you help me?”

Éomer stuttered, trying to explain that he knew nothing of plants; Lothíriel wasn't having it, because she knew he took care of these plants between here and Minas Tirith. She insisted the plants would prefer familiar hands when they move to a new pot. Although it looked like he thought she might be a few apples short of a pie, that was the end of the argument. He would help her.

And so it was that the King and the Queen made every new plant comfortable in the sitting room – that could fit in the sitting room – while he told her his time in Minas Tirith … and avoided those plants called “cactus.”

 

**Wherefore the Fruits are Bitter**

In early September, surprise visitors called again on Edoras. This time, it was Lothíriel's relatives: her father Imrahil, her aunt Ivriniel, and her brothers Erchirion and Amrothos. Éomer seemed suspiciously less surprised than Lothíriel … and better prepared. When she began to lament the fact that she had neither rooms nor proper fare prepared, Éomer stepped forward to say that they did indeed have all this and more. The monarchs accompanied their guests on a tour of Meduseld, and the king was not surprised by the fact that Lothíriel saved her garden for last. But he had not expected the family's reaction.

While Ivriniel looked upon the garden with admiration – and asked for a large portion of catnip – Lothíriel's brother and father seemed to feign interest. Éomer saw that this had not gone unnoticed by his wife, and felt horrible for the look of disappointment on her face. But then why should he have expected more from these warriors? They could care less about the differences between apple trees which had yet to bear fruit. Regardless, the rest of the day and evening was spent amicably, and Lothíriel caught up with all the news of Dol Amroth.

Éomer saw here, too, that her father and brothers did a good deal more talking than listening. When Ivriniel began to talk about gardening with Lothíriel, the menfolk turned to Éomer to speak on matters of state. Once in a while he tried to catch snippets on the ladies' conversation, feeling much more in the mood for a lighter topic. He was happy enough to talk about the herd he had received from Harad, and to hear about the maritime technologies gifted to the Princes, but something about the way the men of her family were his wife bothered him. It also didn't escape his notice that she was eating less than usual. After supper, he found himself at a small table, speaking one-on-one with Prince Imrahil. Eventually, Éomer brought the subject up.

“My Queen put quite an effort into her garden,” he hinted.

“Pardon? Oh, yes,” Imrahil said with an indulgent smile. “She's always had a head for things that grow, and my sister and wife had a hand in encouraging it. Now, about the new breeding stock-”

“What did you really think of the Garden of Meduseld?” Éomer asked, cringing inwardly at rudely cutting off his father-in-law.

Imrahil frowned, looking like he hadn't given it much thought. “It's fair, to be sure, but I would expect nothing less of my daughter.”

“I'm afraid that 'knows her way around a spade' is a poor estimation of her talent.”

Now Imrahil seemed to catch on. “I suppose.”

“Do you know what that garden looked like at the beginning of the summer?”

“Do tell.” Éomer could see that Imrahil was merely waiting to speak of other things, and felt irritation.

“There was nothing; everything is new. What you saw today was entirely her work.” When he saw that the Prince only looked faintly amused, Éomer told his all the stories of his wife and her garden, and ended in an accusatory tone: “Yet you seem to take little interest in your daughter as a woman of extraordinary forethought.”

The Prince raised an eyebrow, and Éomer wondered if his temper had taken him too far this time. Imrahil's sons barged in loudly.

“Talking about Lothíriel's garden?” Amrothos asked.

“It was nice, I guess, but shouldn't she be doing something … useful?” Erchirion added.

Éomer was dumbstruck. He let the matter go, and finished speaking with them for the night. He didn't see the appraising look Imrahil sent after him as he went back to the Royal Apartments.

There, Éomer heard a faint sobbing from the sitting room, and he opened the door to see Ivriniel holding his distraught wife as she spent her last tears. When she saw him, Lothíriel turned her head away, and Ivriniel glared.

“What's wrong?” he asked softly, having a good idea of what it might be.

Ivriniel sighed when Lothíriel's tears began anew. “My brother Imrahil never thought highly of gardening, yet both his own wife and our sister Finduilas were avid gardeners. And Finduilas, too, married a man who could not have cared less, even though he loved everything about her. She always told me that she felt like she was on a pedestal from which she could not move, and that she felt like she was pruning back her own personality to fit her husband's expectations.” Ivriniel smiled sadly, “Those were her words, so forgive the terrible play on words: my sister had a silly sense of humor.

“In any case, I swore I would never marry a man who didn't care what made my heart sing if it wasn't he who did. And here is my poor niece with brothers as indifferent as my own.” Ivriniel looked at him squarely. “You seem different though.”

Éomer gave a genuine, large smile, feeling flattered by her reckoning of him. He went over to Lothíriel and took her into his arms, and spoke, “That garden means more to me than I realized. I admit that I couldn't understand their cool reception of your work – and honestly, I was insulted!”

That illicited a laugh from his wife. She wrapped her arms around his torso and closed her eyes, breathing in his smell. Ivriniel stood up, sensing that she should give the couple privacy. As she went to leave, she said, “I think I'll go have words with my brother.”

“Just make sure he doesn't think I sent you,” Éomer called after her, “because I tried talking to him earlier.”

Lothíriel looked up in surprise and he tweaked her nose. When Ivriniel left, he told his wife what he had said. Lothíriel considered it quietly for a moment, then spoke:

“I started gardening when I realized that I would never be a warrior like my brothers; to go and fight the forces of the Dark Lord. I thought to myself, 'maybe creating a more beautiful world is in itself an act of defiance.' When I proudly explained this to Father, he laughed, like I wasn't serious. I was only twelve at the time, and I despised the thought that I was only childish in his eyes. I cannot abide the thought of being one of those childlike women, who prevent themselves from growing up in hopes of attracting men who would be put off by a woman who shoulders responsibility.

“I garden because I can feel real – I can work up a sweat and be filthy, and thumb my nose at the delicate ideal of femininity. I can feel strong and powerful like the mountains because I am essentially rooted to the earth. All the possibilities Yavanna bestowed on Arda can be brought by me into my own little world. Every little struggle, every drop of sweat while gardening is like a prayer to her. Or at least, that's how I see it. So I feel more connected to the Great Powers than I would if I went to a temple.

“When I garden, I can delude myself for a little longer into thinking that I am seen as every bit as capable, strong, and important as the men in my life … and not for being only a helpmeet. But where they destroy life – even if it is evil life – I can create good life. To create is more difficult than to destroy.”

Éomer thought on her words, and realized that the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.

He responded, “I believe you are everything you say you want to be. Perhaps at first I thought you were strange-” here she grinned “-but nevertheless wise for your years, with greater prudence and practicality than most royal courts in their entirety! So, Lothíriel?”

“Yes?” she looked into his eyes.

“I vow to make up for all the times that your father and brothers overlooked you.”

And so it was that Éomer kept this vow – being a man of his word – and won the praises of Ivriniel, who said once, to Lothíriel's mortification, “If only I were a few decades younger!”

 

**Whereupon the Roses Begin to Vanish**

Just when Lothíriel thought she would get to enjoy that deviant rosebush, all the blooms and rosehips disappeared. It was September, so she shouldn't have been surprised that they were gone from the colder climes, but nary a rosehip was to be found in the garden – not even on the ground. She walked around, and eventually called for Hliehhan. Neither could find a single trace.

“I hope next summer is as exciting as this one has been. With you in residence it shouldn't be a problem,” Hliehhan remarked dryly, which put Lothíriel in a better mood. She decided to show Hliehhan the plants which now lined the sitting room, and they were there when Éomer came by about mid-afternoon. He spoke to the women briefly before going into the bedchamber for something he had needed. As he passed, both women noticed something markedly floral about his aroma. After he left Lothíriel started looking all over the Royal Apartment.

Hliehhan shook her head, saying he would have been more careful than that.

At dinner, Lothíriel confronted him, but he didn't budge at first, claiming he had no knowledge of he mystery of the roses. Finally, he said, “I will tell you where the roses are as soon as you explain why you've been eating plain bread and water ever since I left for Minas Tirith.” He grinned when that effectively silenced her.

And so it was that Éomer kept his secret as long as Lothíriel kept hers. It wasn't that long, actually...

 

**Wherein a Declaration is Declared**

On a frosty September morning, Éomer traced the delicate features of his wife's face with his hand; the features that belied the intelligence and strength and perspicacity he had come to admire. As she stared back at him, he wondered how she saw him. He wondered if she thought and reasoned out the world around her the way that he did. He discarded the notion immediately, thinking wryly that she was more clever in certain ways than he, but in other ways endearingly scatter-minded. Who else but this profound woman could cut a letter written in Adunaîc down to size, and later leave a bucket of feed and a bucket of water to be kicked over by her own horse? There was no one else by whom Éomer would gladly be proven wrong; and he had a feeling that she was more willing to concede some arguments to him than to any other.

He kissed her languidly, and she met on that level.

This woman of understated intensity.

Lothíriel.

How many times had he thought of her – and in how many ways – during the journey to and from Minas Tirith? How much more had he boasted of his wife to those dignitaries than of his own accomplishments?

When they pulled apart, he saw mischief in her eyes. She said: “Where have you got my roses?”

Perhaps startled by the incongruity of her silliness with the virtues he had just recited in his thoughts, he said only, “I love you, Lothíriel.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, and she looked pleasantly surprised, but her sense of humor was unshakeable. She replied, “I've loved you since you washed my feet.”

They laughed for a long time, and kissed for a long – and otherwise stayed in bed for a long time – and then Lothíriel took Éomer's hand and pulled it against her stomach. He took her meaning right away, and felt tears of joy prickling behind his eye. They kissed again, and she asked about her roses again.

He kissed her all over her face, smiling, and said, “I'm turning them into a number of different gifts for you. I think you will like them.”

And so it was that ever since that first declaration of love, the two made sure to tell each other – with or without words – how they loved each other so.


	5. Fruits of Thy Labor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherefrom the Seasons Come | Whereby a Gift is Given | Wherefore Art Thou Éadig? | Wherein the Queen is Celebrated

**Wherefrom the Seasons Come**

Just about the time of the equinox, Lothíriel Queen sent word out that she would need help setting her garden straight for winter. Many herbs and vegetables had been picked throughout the season, but now it was time for a real effort. She enlisted a number of servants to be ready to make pickles and preserves, while asking others to find more good spots to dry herbs. Once the jars and barrels and racks were ready, Hliehhan and Lothíriel went around to look for the children from whom the compost had been secured in the spring. Would they like to help in the garden over the next week? Many said yes, overjoyed that they would be allowed to keep a portion of what they picked for themselves.

Better yet, Éomer received word that his sister would be visiting for a number of weeks, and that they could expect her and Faramir in the first week of October. He brought this news to his wife in the garden, reading to her from the letter as she showed two little boys how to cut the last of the horehound and lemon balm for drying. Lothíriel smiled at Éomer.

“That's wonderful! I haven't seen those two since our wedding.”

“I think Éowyn would love to see your work here.”

She looked at him funny. “Are you sure? She didn't strike me as the gardening type.”

Éomer laughed, “Oh, I'd wager the two of you will find plenty to talk about.”

“Faramir, too, might like this. He actually taught me how to grow some of these,” she said thoughtfully. It was now Éomer who looked at Lothíriel funny.

Autumn came and the days passed quickly. The drying racks had filled up very quickly, and some herbs were now hanging in the Royal Apartment. Éomer suggested they be hung from the rafters in the main hall, but Lothíriel said that might not go over well with some of the more uptight members of court. It probably was enough of a shock to see their King going around and tightening strings on the bundles of herbs to keep them in place.

Everything in the vicinity of the kitchen smelled of sugar and vinegar. Cucumber, carrot, cabbage, and onion were being pickled in barrels. Jars of preserves were taking over the shelves. Lothíriel didn't bat an eyelash at the volume of food her garden had produced. Those who had doubted her earlier in the season now stood gawking. In no time at all, the Prince and Princess of Ithilien – and their guard – had arrived.

After being greeted by the King and Queen, many pressed forward to welcome Éowyn back to her childhood home. Hliehhan gave her a cheeky smile and a soft slap on the shoulder.

“Come back to see what civilization looks like?” she teased. Lothíriel was almost certain this would turn into a scandal, but then Éowyn cackled.

“Yours is the only example I follow,” she shot back.

Lothíriel felt better knowing that these two were friends. In fact, it seemed to make quite a bit of sense.

Faramir and Éowyn were duly impressed with the garden of Meduseld and all it produced. Éowyn suggested some other ways (and places) to dry herbs that had not occurred to Lothíriel. Faramir commended her for the garlic, coriander, and saffron she had put in, saying it was no mean feat to grow the like in such a climate. Rather than unpacking, the two set about to helping Lothíriel find the root vegetables she had planted among the flowers.

On seeing these flowers, Faramir said to his wife, “I have one or two books left, if you want to press these for your collection.” Éowyn blushed, and he turned to Lothíriel to explain: “I might not have encouraged her gardening if I had known she would use my whole library to press flowers. I never know which book might have flowers between the pages, and I must ask my wife's permission before removing any book from my shelves.”

Nearby, Hliehhan called out, “Better yours than mine!”

Éowyn was now beet-red, and Faramir swept her up into a hug, kissing her cheeks as he laughed. Lothíriel couldn't remember _ever_ seeing one of her cousins so happy.

After supper, in the sitting room, Éowyn told Éomer of their plans.

“I had hoped to spend enough time here that I may attend the Harvest Festival. Faramir has never seen it, and I wanted to come before traveling is too difficult. And we have reason to believe that you will have many guests.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow. “First, what do you mean 'before traveling is too difficult?'”

“I'm expecting,” she said bluntly. So bluntly, that it took a moment for it to sink in.

“Congratulations!” cried Lothíriel. “That makes two of us!” The two women were ecstatic, and it took a moment for them to calm down.

“And second,” Éomer continued, “How do you know that we will have many guests? Did you send out invitations?” Lothíriel snorted; Éowyn waved him off.

“No, no, they will write for permission of course. King Elessar mentioned off-hand to the dignitaries from the South how the Harvest Festival in Rohan is a thing to behold. They are in Minas Tirith for the winter because parts of the way back into their kingdom are always blocked between early Autumn and late Spring.”

Lothíriel sat up straighter, knowing her face must have lit up. She looked to her husband, saying, “Oh, they must come! I do wish I could have gone with you this summer, but if they visit, I can meet them in person and thank them for the gifts. And ask them how to better care for these plants.”

And so it was that when letter seeking permission to attend the festivities arrived, Éomer King was loathe to ban anyone from coming. He added a post-script to each response that “the Queen would never let him hear the end of it if she missed this opportunity to meet them.”

**Whereby a Gift is Given**

A sennight before the Harvest Festival, Éomer finally revealed what had become of the roses: they had been used to make bath soaks and massage oils for his wife. The rosehips had been used to create a stock of tisanes and dried food for her pregnancy. He also admitted that Éowyn had had to supplement his inventory. Lothíriel suggested that they try some of the bath soak together.

That night, they giggled like small children, sitting in a large tub and drinking a little bit of fruit wine (courtesy of Faramir).

“I received another letter today,” said Éomer.

“From whom?”

“Legolas. I would have expected one from Gimli to be not too far behind, though he may be settling into the Glittering Caves already.”

“In which case Erkenbrand would receive a letter,” Lothíriel said dryly.

“Undoubtedly. However, Legolas has requested to bring a number of Elves…”

“How many?”

“Three-score and seven.”

Lothíriel's jaw dropped.

“He said that they would be bringing quite a few barrels of Dorwinion to make up for the short notice. He also writes to say that the barrels have been checked for dwarves beforehand -- whatever that means. I think he may have sampled some of the wine before writing this. Anyway, it seems that this is a stopping point, for he is moving to Ithilien. Faramir can bear witness to this; he seemed to believe that I had foreknowledge that the Elves would be leaving with him and Éowyn.”

“What an amazing new world this is,” Lothíriel said absent-mindedly. She looked back at him, “Are you sure you read that number right?” His silence was her answer.

Then he said, “Legolas also expressed a wish to see his rival in gardening before starting on the gardens of Minas Tirith.”

“Who might that be?” Lothíriel asked.

“You.”

She blushed. “Hardly.”

He splashed a little water at her, getting some in her wine.

**Wherefore Art Thou Éadig?**

Edoras was absolutely bustling two days before the Harvest Festival. Wild game was being roasted on spits over fires throughout the streets. Tents were being set up outside the gates of the city in anticipation of many arrivals. Early in the morning, the emissaries and diplomats of Harad arrived, being larger in number than Lothíriel had been led to believe, including men and women and even a child or two. She had to consciously prevent herself from staring rudely at them, for they had varying degrees of dark, dusky skin, and thick, textured hair. Their hair was fashioned in ways Lothíriel had never imagined possible (and knew would be impossible with her own anyway).

When she acquainted herself with them they were very kind and gracious, finding humor in the fact that there was still some language barrier. They were as quick to laugh at their own mistakes as they were to laugh at hers. The duration of their stay provided much amusement in communicating half in Westron and half in Adunaîc, which Lothíriel needed help to speak since it had not been heard in the North for quite some time. She was informed that this group represented seven of the ten tribes in the Kingdom of United Tribes. They were also happy to point out their tribal regions on the new map of Harad gifted to the Kingdom of Rohan. Lothíriel suggested that the map be on display the next day, when the hothouse was officially opened.

After the greetings, most of the group was settled either into guesthouses or in tents, but two of the Haradric diplomats stepped away to talk to Éomer (in halting Westron, since Éomer's Adunaîc was nonexistent) about the herd recently brought to the Mark. They and several others (all from grassland regions) wished dearly to see the herd once more, and were hoping to see some of the Rohirric horses in turn. It was later revealed that two of the tribes were known as Horse Lords in the South! They, too, had lost many horses to Sauron's agents who had come to rule the land.

While her husband was otherwise occupied, Lothíriel asked around if anyone in the group had knowledge of the plants she had received. She was directed to a wizened old man who always began speaking by giving a brief, toothless grin. He seemed fragile, stooping over when he walked and speaking in a wispy voice. His Westron, though doubtlessly practiced over many years, still bore a thick accent. Lothíriel attributed it to poor translation on her part, but the estimates of his age ranged from fifty and one hundred years to upwards of thirty and two hundred years. The Queen gave her arm for his support as they slowly made their way to the hothouse, Éowyn and Hliehhan joining in as they approached their destination.

Once there, he shook her off, and walked around, inspecting the plants, sometimes tasting the leaves or a piece of bark, sometimes rubbing them between his fingers and smelling. He was alert and focused, suddenly very serious and intent. The only time he acknowledged the women was when he went to a new plant and turned to give them its name: lemon, patchouli, myrtle, olibanum, henna, bdellium, vanilla orchids, red bush, devil's weed, olive, jasmine, verbena, and red currant (even though it looked nothing like the red currant Lothíriel knew). He inspected each one top to bottom, sometimes even testing the soil. The longer he took, the more Lothíriel worried that she did something wrong – her two companions caught on to her anxiety.

Finally, he turned to her with one of his smiles, and declared that she was doing a commendable job, especially for the fact that she was a Northerner. The comment sometimes bothered her in the years since, but at the time, she accepted the compliment graciously. He took her around to each plant, explaining the uses of each one. The other two women left as the afternoon wore on, and by the evening, Lothíriel had a headache from all the new information. She confessed to this man – whose name was very long, but only asked to be called Tau, and in turn called her “Lottie” – that he may have to repeat some of what he had told her. Before going to bed that night, she made sure to write down everything she could remember.

o0o

The day before the Harvest Festival, Lothíriel stood beside Éomer as they presented their subjects with the hothouse. Tau insisted on standing next to Lottie, and every person who neglected to thank the Queen for her hard work got an earful from the old man. Her husband seemed a little baffled at this man stepping in at first, but soon realized that this freed him up to show some of the Eorling nobility about the hothouse, directing them to the map of Harad which had been placed near the front.

By noon, Elves were spotted from afar, and soon they were at the gates of Edoras, chatting merrily, laughing, dancing, and generally being much more lively and boisterous than most thought Elves would be. The large barrels of Dorwinion were unloaded, as promised (though one or two were suspiciously empty), and put up in the Hall of Meduseld. This group of Elves took up all the rest of the hitherto unoccupied tents, and even had to set up some of their own. Legolas was given space in Meduseld, meanwhile, so that he could be free to discuss matters of state with Faramir and Éomer.

o0o

The morning dawned clear, crisp, and cool. Lothíriel woke up to see Éomer staring into one of his boots, squinting into its depths.

“Something the matter?” she said hazily.

“There's a small kitten in here. I'm surprised his mewling didn't wake you.”

She was now fully awake, crawling over the bed to stare into the boot. She wrinkled her nose, and looked back to Éomer, saying, “He couldn't choose a more aromatic place, I suppose.”

“He keeps scratching and biting me whenever I try to reach in to get him,” he said, disregarding her comment. “And turning the boot upside-down has proved fruitless.”

“Did you try unlacing the boot and giving him room to crawl out?” He gave her a look that told her he had not thought of this. A heart-wrenching slew of cries came from the boot as he unlaced it, and the bewildered tabby kitten stumbled out slowly. He put him on the bed so that he and his wife could go about getting ready for the day.

The King was usually expected to give a speech at the beginning of the day to start the celebrations, and Éomer had been long thinking of what he might want to articulate to his people. He had noticed that many were uneasy around the Elves and especially the Haradrim, so he would need to address that – hopefully doing so would alleviate the tension. But he wanted to address so many things while keeping the speech short enough so that his wife wouldn't have to stay on her feet too long. And while he was at it, he may as well announce her pregnancy.

The Queen, on the other hand, knew that she was not expected to say anything, but rather to stand demurely at his side. Today, she felt like doing just that. Her gown felt heavier than before, and it was becoming tighter – not just around her belly. She could have done without the stares sent her way the whole morning, but before the speech, Faramir pulled her aside, the corner of his lips almost breaking into a smile.

“You are sure you can stand?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“For both speeches?”

“Pardon?”

“I was going to give a speech, too. A very short one, just before Éomer King.”

“Oh. I did not know that. I look forward to it,” she added with genuine enthusiasm.

“He promised to keep his short as well. I was also wondering …”

“Yes?”

“Why have you been walking around with that on your dress?”

She felt her heart skip a few beats, and she panicked about what might be on her dress. Lothíriel gathered her skirts around, looking for the offense. The small tabby kitten was clinging on for dear life. Her head snapped back up to her cousin. “How long has he been there?”

He laughed openly now. “Ever since you came from your chambers!”

Lothíriel quickly righted the situation, placing the kitten on her shoulder, praying that it would not piddle on her while her husband spoke.

Éomer King stood on the top of the steps of Meduseld just before midday and looked out at the multitude gathering to hear him speak. His subjects, his guests, his friends, his kin … everyone here looked happy and healthy, and he felt that the greatest sorrows of his life ended here at this moment. He was quite pleased with himself when his voice remained clear and steady, speaking first in Rohirric and then in Westron. That alone would have made a decent speech rather long, but he kept his promise and made it short. He acknowledged the losses of each group present, and then their contributions to the peace of the Fourth Age. He put forth the hope that many in Arda could bear witness to the growth of the Eorlingas, saying that the days of greatness were not merely in the past, but that they were both at hand and yet to come. With that, he beckoned forward the youngest of his councilors, who had offered to coordinate festivities, but a great roar went up from the crowd, startling the Elves and the Haradrim at first.

His people cried, “ _Hāl, Éomer Cyning! Éadig Cyning!_ ”

As he looked at his wife in astonishment, he saw that she was beaming at him, tears in her eyes, as she took his hands.

o0o

In the evening after a long day of game and competition the ale was flowing and the winners lauded. Lothíriel Queen did her best to lead some of the dances, and was excused graciously when she begged to sit down from time to time. Her husband joined her for one of her breaks, and later along came Tau.

The three of them looked on at the revelry, as the different races all danced together. Lothíriel had a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that this would not happen again for many Ages of Man. She shook that sadness away and turned to speak with Tau.

“I am sorry if this is rude,” she started, “but I understand from your relations that you aren't a winter younger than one hundred and fifty.”

This caught Éomer's attention. At first Tau stared blankly at her, but then gave his grin and said, “I once treated Éomer King's forefathers at a battle in the South long ago. Two brothers, I believe.” His smile looked bitter. Éomer and Lothíriel were surprised by the clarity of his Westron and strength of voice, and wondered if his feebleness had been an act. “If I had been caught by my people, I would have been executed for treason. But the brothers passed away even after all I had done. I prepared their bodies for when they were found by their people, and my secret remained safe.”

“What are you talking about?” Lothíriel asked softly.

“The Battle of the Crossings of Poros?” Éomer asked urgently.

Tau replied in the affirmative, adding, “I was part of the spy network acting on behalf of Gondor and allies. The brothers' names were Fastred and Folcred, who knew me before I ever had to tend to them.”

Éomer sat back, scrutinizing Tau, and then confirmed for Lothíriel that he may very well be telling the truth. This would put his age well over one hundred and thirty years. Tau then leaned in, pulling something from a pocket concealed in his shirt.

“I should have returned this sooner, but I confess I grew attached to it.” He gave a small medallion of gold, cast into the shape of a horse's head, over to Éomer, whose expression became disbelief. “It was clearly an heirloom and a thing of power. The brother called Folcred gave it to me, saying that I should think of the North when the light fades from the South. Immediately after that battle I deserted my kin's army, and gathered as many of the descendents of Númenor as I could still find. Warriors, scholars, and perhaps most importantly, gardeners,” he said with a wink to Lothíriel, “who could help me build a force to keep the light of the Valar shining in the South.”

As Éomer turned the medallion in his hand, Tau took out another amulet on a long silver chain, and held it out for them to see. It was glass, with a sky-blue rim around a clear rim, and at the center was a white circle and a black dot in the middle. “This is the symbol of the good in the South; it is like an eye, meant to ward off the Evil Eye by staring right back! Though Sauron has fallen, evil still walks the earth. Oft-times in the guise of Man. Please, take this, Lothíriel Queen. Many of the plants sent from the South will keep you in health in your years to come, but I cannot leave without giving you this last protection. Consider it repayment for the medallion I kept from your country all these years.”

She took it breathlessly, and felt a lightness come into her heart as she fastened the clasp of the chain behind her neck. Her last question to ask was, “You are the one responsible for the creation of the Kingdom of United Tribes?”

“Only one of many, my dear,” he answered. “For what is a battle among grasshoppers but a joy to the crow? And never underestimate how far gardening can go in the face of despair.” A tinge of sea-grey appeared in his eyes from the firelight, and she saw that this man was her distant Númenórean kin.

o0o

In contrast to the merrymaking of their subjects, the King and Queen were very quiet when they went to bed that night. They said nothing of Tau's revelation to Faramir or Éowyn – or even to Legolas – but they knew they must. Eventually, Lothíriel got out of bed, wrapped herself in warm clothes, and went to the garden. Éomer was close behind her.

There she stood in a garden picked bare, staring up at the moon. He led her to a wooden bench against the side of the Hall, and wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm.

“Everything is so different than it was at this time last year,” she said. He seconded this. “I never thought I would be so happy as I am now.”

“You don't miss Dol Amroth, do you?” he asked, suddenly doubting he had anything to do with her happiness.

“I miss it every now and then, but I could never go back.” She kissed his cheek quickly but softly. “There's something to be said for making a place your own. I felt welcome to do that since the moment I stepped into the Mark. And there's something about you, you know…” she added coyly.

He kept himself from grinning like an idiot. “I am glad. You seemed half-hearted when the betrothal was announced.”

Lothíriel stared up at the moon again. “I will admit that I was at the time. I will even admit that I was somewhat frightened and intimidated by you. Elphir was quick to point out that I wasn't being true to myself; that I had never let myself be afraid of anything before in my life. I hated him for saying this, of course, but he was right.”

Éomer chuckled. “No, it doesn't seem like you to be afraid. You hid it very well … and made me begin to question myself.”

“Question your agreeing to the betrothal?”

“No, no: question my confidence and ability to be a good husband for you. You see, you take after your aunt a little bit.” That made her giggle. “When did you stop being afraid?”

Lothíriel didn't even have to think about it: “After I got that letter from you around Yule last year, where you rambled on and on about nothing in particular.” She decided not to add that she had found it endearing how he had demonstrated a lack of expertise in several areas.

Éomer groaned. “I had hoped that that letter would never reach you. I realized too late that I wrote in an unguarded manner.”

“I thought it was really sweet how a seasoned warrior would let his guard down like that.”

“There's just something about you, you know…” He trailed off, deciding he'd rather kiss her.

And so he did.

**Wherein the Queen is Celebrated**

Some months later, February to be precise, came Lothíriel’s name-day. She had spent the cold winter days on crewel-work, on translations of old manuscripts, and on building up the still room. Most times she had to leave the tending of the indoor plants to servants. Éomer worried whether or not she was overworking herself. She was getting larger, and he started massaging her feet after her long days.

They expected Ivriniel and Imrahil yet again, even though it was generally discouraged to travel long distances through the Mark in the dead of winter. Neither Lothíriel nor Éomer would admit any worry about seeing Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth had not mentioned anything they had spoken of before he left Rohan, and for all intents and purposes he seemed as amiable as ever.

They arrived the morning of Lothíriel Queen's birthday, bearing presents and letters from friends and relatives. There was a quiet luncheon for the four of them in the sitting room of the Royal Apartment, where Lothíriel was encouraged to open her gifts. As the snow began falling gently outside and the fire crackled, it became a very cozy little gathering.

Elphir and his wife had sent several bolts of soft linen in different colors; their four-year-old son Alphros had decided to send a much-loved toy “from when he was little.” Erchirion sent a number of spices he had acquired on his recent travels; Amrothos sent a lovely painting. Ivriniel brought Lothíriel scrolls of herblore (and later hinted that there may be scrolls of racy poetry mixed in there somewhere). Then they procured the gifts from Faramir and Éowyn: a number of clever arrangements of dried flowers, already framed.

Once these presents were all put neatly out of the way, Ivriniel stood up. “Éomer, my dear, would you help an old lady to see that her bags made it to her room?”

He acquiesced, grinning at the formidable woman's characterization of herself. That left Lothíriel with her father. Once the two had gone, Imrahil cleared his throat and drew out a few more parcels.

“These are from me…and your mother, in a way,” he said quietly. The smile on his face could have been either sorrow or joy, depending on how the light flickered.

Lothíriel unwrapped the first one, and found it was a large folio of old papers, with scribbles and sketches. She gasped. “These can't be what I think they are.”

“Your mother kept meticulous records, and so left behind a record of every garden plan, every year, going back to the first year we were married,” he said in a choked voice. “If you ever yearn to see the gardens from your childhood, you now have them at your disposal.”

“I thought-”

“That I took no notice of the women in my life?”

Lothíriel looked down, feeling a little ashamed of herself. Imrahil continued, “I regret that I have not always expressed how important you all are to me. The only person who was never given a chance was Finduilas – and her husband suffered the consequences of not paying heed to the importance of what she did.” He took a deep breath before saying, “Open this one next,” as he nudged a second parcel towards her.

She opened it and found two books. They were both written in the same hand, and appeared to be novels of some sort; the stories were accompanied by illustrations in vibrant ink.

“I only just discovered these before leaving to come here! Do you remember my mother? No, I suppose not. She came from a family famed for talent in horticulture, but she turned out to be a rather indifferent gardener: her talent was in writing and painting. My sisters and I were raised on these books, written by her, even after she had been told to pursue more feminine activities countless times. You should have these for your children; I don't think your brothers would appreciate them.”

Lothíriel couldn't stop the tears that were beginning to fall, and she tried in vain to wipe them away. When she looked at her father, she saw that he was crying a little, too. They laughed at themselves, and Imrahil spoke again.

“I learned early on to look for the significance in things that go unnoticed by many. Not all heroes come from the battlefield, and more importantly, women don't like to be reminded by the men they love that they are all too often forgotten in the annals of history.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “There's a reason two of your brothers are bachelors, and it is not the flattering reason they believe it to be.”

Lothíriel scoffed at this, almost shocked that her father would speak this way of her brothers. He bade her to open the last parcel.

It was heavy and somewhat large, and something was clanging around inside: a new set of hand-tools for gardening, wrought of quality metal and fit with handles shaped for the curve of her grasp.

“I had these commissioned after my last visit here. I realized that I needed to give up the pretense of being a distant father, who felt his daughter's interests to be inconsequential.” He grinned at her and said, “I remember when you told me how you would battle the growing darkness by bringing more light and life into the world. You always seemed bitter after telling me, and I suppose I shouldn't have laughed. Such wise words for one so young! But, my lovely daughter, when this child you now carry is a scrappy twelve winters, and tells you he or she will defy one of the greatest and most evil Maiar in the history of Arda by gardening, I defy you to bite your cheek.”

Upon seeing it through his eyes, a weight she hadn't known to be on her chest lifted.

o0o

The Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth stayed for a week or so, and when a break came in the weather, they left. Éomer remarked that his Father-in-law seemed much more at ease than before; Lothíriel told him about her talk with Imrahil. She showed him the books and the tools and the folio of garden plans gifted to her, and he seemed to show the exact appreciation she had wanted from him. After that, Lothíriel began to turn her attention to creating her own garden plan, leaving behind the crewel, and manuscripts, and still-room.

The inspiration seemed to be catching, for soon the sleepiness that Winter cast over the denizens of Edoras began to melt away. The projects left behind by the Queen were taken up by others, and even the Royal Council was more cooperative than usual. Each day, the Queen tended the hothouse garden, and every night made minor changes to her plans. Though much would remain the same in the coming season, there were certain plots she wished to rotate in order to keep the nutrients in the soil. In addition, she now intended to use a portion of the hothouse as a nursery for young plants, while some of the hothouse plants could bear to be moved into the garden. If the King had been impressed by his wife before, he was now stunned at the depth of knowledge she possessed as it pertained to the natural world. He began to join her on the nights he could spare, wishing to learn from her.

One such night, Lothíriel leaned back and sighed after showing Éomer one of her favorite garden designs from her mother's records.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“I was just thinking – I hope the baby comes before I have to work in the garden.”

“You can't seriously be thinking of working right after giving birth.”

Lothíriel quirked an eyebrow at him over a raised cup of tea like she had so many months ago. “It's not as though I will push the babe out and immediately turn for my trowel.”

He snorted, picturing her doing just that. “Well, what do you mean?”

“I mean that I will take enough rest to recover, and then work in my garden to avoid being idle. And it's no trouble to watch the babe while I work: he won't be able to wander off when my back is turned for some years yet. If he's close, then the nursemaid won't have to fetch me every time he is hungry."

“He?” Éomer asked.

“Perhaps. That is my feeling, at least.”

“And you intend to nurse the child yourself, unlike most noble ladies?”

She looked at him askance. “Why, of course. I would prefer to be as close to my child as possible than to maintain maidenly breasts. Do you have a problem with that?” If Éomer was going to disagree with his wife, he would have worried over her increasingly aggressive posture.

“Whatever you choose to do is fine, I assure you,” he said nonchalantly. “One of my fondest memories of my own mother is of watching her nurse Éowyn.”

Lothíriel’s expression relaxed. “You were all very close, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Éomer looked down and fiddled with a loose string on the hem of his sleeve. “Very much so.” She reached over to cover his restless hand with hers.

“I’m sure we will have that too. And it can be our own.”

And so it was that the Third Line of the Kings of the Mark was renowned for remarkable beginnings and high estimation of family.


End file.
